Fine White Fabric
by EnvelopesandCypressTrees
Summary: Italy is sick, dying. Romano and Ludwig struggle to come to terms that their brother, friend may die. Be gone. Forever. Can they save him? Does Italy want to be saved? Or is it finally time for Italy to surrender for the last time? Whump. Germany/Italy romance later on. Read and Review.


**my first Hetalia FanFic. So please review.**

**I do not own Hetalia but if I did, Germany and Italy would already be in bed together. **

**Every night, every day...not the point. Let me know what you think. More to come.**

* * *

Italy was known for fine white fabric, not silk, not made of expensive threads, yet made with something called dedication. And of course, that white fabric was put to good use, as flags of surrender on the battle fields. And yet, although those flags may stand for cowardice to some, to young Italy…they stood for self-perseverance.

He was not only protecting himself but everyone else, white flags meant no need for fighting, no need for violence…or spilled blood.

Even if it meant surrendering himself to the enemy. Those white fabrics were not cowardice…but a courage that no one could understand. No one but Italy.

Italy was much stronger than other countries gave him credit for. Perhaps, in his own way, he was the strongest of them all.

But today, Italy was weak. Weaker than he'd been in a long while.

His honey eyes opened with a struggle, eyelids straining against the light that consumed his room. He laid for a moment, breaths shaky, heaving in sighing puffs. He sounded like he had been crying.

He raised a trembling hand over his face and looked at it, his pupils following the tremors. He was exhausted. He let his hand fall to his forehead and it stuck with a layer of thin, damp sweat.

He rolled and pulled back the covers, swinging his legs over the edge. His boxers resided dangerously low on his hips, exposing sharp hip bones and a thin trail of hair disappearing below the elastic of his shorts. His purple-pink tank top was stained with dark pools of sweat and clung snugly onto his skin.

His hair hung over his eyes, damp, his curl limp, hanging at his collar bone.

The last time he had been sick he had been at Germany's house, and Ludwig had taken care of him as he lay, feverish with cold. He felt worse now than he did then. That time before Germany had watched over him like a mother hen, and truthfully Italy, touched by his concern, had been 'sick' longer than he had been _sick_. If you understand.

Italy had added a few unnecessary coughs and moans, so that he could enjoy Ludwig's care just a little while longer. He knew it was unfair to make the German worry…and yet he felt no guilt. And Germany had been worried, stayed with him all three days, never leaving his side until Japan had forced him to get some rest.

How Feliciano wished for Ludwig right now.

His weary feat somehow made it to the cold tile of the bathroom. He pulled off his clothes, slowly due to the lingering aches in his muscles, it was probably flu, an epidemic was sweeping through his country at moment. Or at least they thought it was the flu. As his eyes found the clock it ka-cooed, announcing it was half past eight. The morning was brisk, the widows full of December frost.

He turned the nob on the shower with metallic shriek and the bathroom was almost immediately filled with a misty fog. For a moment a seed of loneliness and abandonment grew in his already tumbling stomach, it was late morning and yet no one had checked on why Feliciano hadn't woke.

No one cared enough to make sure he was all right. He should call Germany, but he was always calling Ludwig. And knowing his friend he had probably just got back from a fierce battle, guessing against France, and was catching up on some much needed slumber. Italy wasn't going to bother him.

Naked, shivering, ill, Feliciano stepped into the shower. He let the water scorch his skin and run like a waterfall off his face. The sickness was disorienting his equilibrium and Italy found himself constantly swaying, so violently that at times he was balancing on one foot. Finally he decided to place a hand on the cool tile for support, within a few minutes his other hand was placed for more. Then within a few more moments, he had sat upon the tiles entirely.

That's when he heard a knock. His ears perked and he rested his forehead on the cold wall. The knock came again, a bit harsher this time.

"Si?" the weakness and exhaustion in his voice made him cringe, he turned off the water without daring to stand "Si?" his voice came stronger slightly as he raised it.

"Feliciano? Brother? It's Romano. Are you all right?" he sounded concerned, Italy buried his face deeper into the tiles.

"…Si…"

"You don't sound all right." A pause "are you sick? Should I call Germany?"

"Nah, I'm okay-dokey, big brother! I'll be right out!"

"I made breakfast, okay?" Italy wished his brother would leave. His suffering grew with each passing moment of the conversation as each word felt like it was ripped from his throat.

"Si, join you in un minuto"

"Si" his brother's foot falls receded. Thankfully, because as his steps faded from sound Italy let out a painful moan, shut his eyes tight against the illness and stood. Swayed, stood. The water was turned off.

He slipped into his blue uniform, dried his hair and dug through his medicine cabinet. The antibiotics slid down his throat with a small gag.

It would be a long day. The small Italian paused by the mirror, he looked like a wreck. He wished to fall into his bed and sleep it away. And yet Feliciano was tired of surrendering. To prove to himself he was indeed strong and not weak like the other countries liked to portray, he vowed there would be no white flags on this flu. This sickness ruling his body was one thing he would conquer.

Oh, Ludwig. How he wished to call. After all what were friends for?

There was a conference today, a world meeting. Italy had almost forgot. This time perhaps he'd leave all white flags home. Just and try for a chance. Germany would be very proud-

"Sei venuta? Il cibo è in attesa!" Italy sighed at the sound of his brother's demanding voice, and buttoned his jacket, practicing a phony smile in the mirror. The mirror smiled back.

"Si Romano, I am coming." He closed his eyes "I am coming."

* * *

His fork pushed around his eggs, Romano must have thought his brother would awaken hungry as his plate was heaping with scrambled eggs, there was even toast placed neatly on a small plate set in the middle of the table.

The food was slightly burned, but South Italy had tried and Feliciano couldn't ask for more.

Lately, the brother's relationship had bettered. Romano was no longer a 'dick' as Italy had called him, and Feliciano was no longer just a 'damn potato lover' to his brother. It had bettered so that now, they cared for each other, even if they weren't the quickest to admit it. They referred to each other as brothers. And they were both quite proud of that.

Romano was three years older than Feliciano, who was celebrating his twentieth birthday soon. Romano liked to act like the older brother and Italy didn't mind. It was nice to have big brothers. Had had quite a few.

Germany, Japan, France, Russia…and of course Romano.

"You aren't eating, brother? What's wrong with you?" Romano pushed himself from his seat, he'd been watching his young brother for a while now, it wasn't like Italy to push about food. Italy's eyes looked up as Romano placed a gentle hand on his forehead, a puff of concerned air blew past his lips and his hand moved to Feliciano's shoulder.

"You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm fine, Romano. Just the flu" it was the wrong thing to say, Romano reacted and pulled back Feliciano's chair with a screech from the wood, he reached down an scooped up his small brother with ease, bridal style. Carrying him upstairs

"Aw, Romano" small cough "you do care" Feliciano managed a tired smile, South Italy's arms tightened slightly.

"I swear, Feliciano. If you tell a word of this to anyone I'll burn your pantry to the ground!" translation: of course I care, idiot.

Romano laid Italy down in his bed and covered him with the blanket, a soft hand lingering on his autumn hair. "Sleep for a while…I'll wake you for the conference in a few hours, all right?" Italy was already asleep. An arpeggio of small uneasy snores racking his frame. His brother looked for on a moment, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He must have been feeling quite weak. "Feel better, Feliciano" he whispered, then turned and walked away.

As soon as the door clicked to a close, Italy opened his eyes and pushed himself to his elbows a harsh cough exploding in his lungs and bursting past his lips. He covered it with his sleeve, eyes wide, praying his brother didn't hear and return. Romano didn't.

He unbuttoned his jacket until he was bare, shivering under the blankets. He curled, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Downstairs Romano was clearing the table.

Unknown to the brothers, upon the streets of their country, the first victim of the Flu lay dead.

And more and more were joining him.

* * *

It was half past noon and the frosted windows had been long melted by a harsh rain, the world outside was gray with storm. Howling from the winds and the smashing of the waves of rain against the side of the house, had awoken sick Italy. He lay, afraid of the thunder, in his bed.

Drenched in an illness caused sweat.

Finally the shadow of Romano entered the duskily lit room, honey eyes watched it come to his bed side. He hand gently shook Feliciano's shoulder.

"Feliciano, brother. Time to get up. The conference is going to start at two…and we need to get the house ready" the Italian brother's had agreed to have the next world meeting at their home for a change, truthfully everyone was getting tired of going to England's. However nice it was, it was a mutual agreement that the food always left a lot to be desired.

"Si" Italy ran a tired hand over his eyes, he sounded so weak.

"How are you feeling?" the shadow bent in half as his brother picked up Italy's discarded jacket. A groan came from the bed as Romano sat, a cool hand on his little brother's bare arm. The older brother helped Feliciano sit upright, cringing as he let out a lung rattling cough. "That bad, huh?"

The silence was the answer. As rain pounded the windows Romano rubbed a hand over his face, then patted his brother's hair lovingly. "Here's what we're going to do, Feliciano…I'll go to the meeting for the both of us, you rest and gather your strength. If it really is the flu you'll need your strength…but you already know that"

Recently Italy had been spending his time at the chapel, they had a crisis center set up for the ill. Italy had been helping amongst the sickened, wiping feverish brows, feeding, cleaning…no wonder he'd caught the illness.

Romano had warned him. But his brother was trying to make sure the influenza didn't spread. Like wildfire in dry brush it had taken over north Italy. And now Feliciano. No one had died until today. And the brothers were still unaware of this.

Again, young Italy was showing a courage that not many understood, or gave him credit for.

Romano was beginning to understand.

Understand what Germany saw in Feliciano, beneath the scrawny appearance, and over-happy emotions.

It scared the eldest to see his brother without that emotion on his face, now it was replaced by pain and exhaustion. Italy's desperate breaths led to slumber, uneasy peace. If it could be called that. He knew his brother was hurting. And yet there was no way to ease it.

It made Romano feel weak.

He tucked the blankets around the small form and left the room once again. He had to clean up the house and set up the conference room, and even perhaps set out some refreshments for their guests.

Italy usually cooked something special for the meetings, something special for each country, wrap them in paper the color of their flags, or the white flags he had scattered around the home.

He should start all the chores, after all there was only nearing an hour before they arrived. And yet Romano found himself in the bathroom. Filling a bowl with cold ice water and grabbing a cloth.

He sat with his brother, placing the cloth on his feverish brow, wringing it, placing it, wringing it, placing it, wringing it. Time passed slowly. Italy's fever got worse yet. Concern grew like sapling deep in Romano's chest. His eyes followed as his brother tossed in light sleep, moaning in distress.

"Oh...Feliciano" he sighed.

He needed to cancel the meeting. He couldn't have the other's catching this and spreading it, and he couldn't let them see Feliciano so weak. No war was being fought and yet he didn't entirely trust the other countries enough to believe that one of them wouldn't try and conquer his sickly brother.

It must be done, and yet with a loud DING-DANG it was entirely too late. The sound of the doorbell echoed in the silent home. He couldn't leave them waiting in the rain, and yet he was strongly inclined to leave them there. Perhaps they might leave? The doorbell rang again, most impatiently.

DING-DANG DING-DANG DING-DANG! It must have been America. Alfred was always the rudest and most impatient.

Romano stood, ready to retrieve his guests. There was nothing he could do now. He shook his brother lightly.

"Feliciano, brother. No matter what you must stay in this room, do you understand? We can't have you spreading your flu around, and you have to conserve your strength, do you understand?"

"S-Si…Romano…" Southern Italy had to strain to hear it, the words brushed past his lips so softly it was if a butterfly had flapped its wings. "Yesterday…I made some pizzas…they're in the fridge, give it to them…tell them I'm sorry I couldn't be there" a harsh cough, Romano brushed back the boy's curl, it lay limp and damp on his forehead.

"Si, Feliciano. Grazie"

* * *

Romano descended the stairs two at a time and opened the door with a bang. Outside the others stood, drenched. Looking angry, to say the least. Water was dripping from their hats, and those who were unlucky enough to have no hat had water dripping from their hair. It was silent as he led them inside and to the fireplace.

They sat by the roaring flames. Drying their jackets and outer clothes.

America, England, France, Russia, China, Germany and Japan.

"Thanks for inviting us, buddy. Too bad we had to stand in the rain" several sets of eyes reacted to the sarcasm of America.

"Vhere is Italy?" Romano swallowed hard, thick saliva dripping into the pit of his stomach. He turned to Germany, who sat near Japan. A loud cough shattered the silence. Feliciano upstairs. Suspicious eyes turned God wards.

"Sleeping, try not to wake him, damn potato lover" Ludwig's sky colored eyes squinted, and England cleared his throat awkwardly,

"The trip here was quite lovely, your country is beautiful…I'm sorry to hear about the deaths" Romano felt every muscle in his body tense, like someone had slapped him, dragging fingernails across his cheek.

"What deaths?"

"Well we were informed on our way here, that dozens of ill have begun to die of sickness…you weren't aware?" Romano couldn't breathe, Feliciano.

"They've died?" he repeated, tremors of terror ran the length of his body. He let out a breath, they died! "Feliciano! Mio fratello! Oh dio, non mio fratello!" he bolted from the room, past the concerned gazes and up the stairs, bursting into his brothers room, the door flew back with a thrash, and he was at his brother's bedside within a moment. The bowl he had used earlier still sat.

"Romano!" he heard his name being called from below. He ignored it, it seemed to echo. He struggled to scoop up his brother's limp form. He may have been over reacting but yet, this was Feliciano. His brother. Italy moaned softly, drenched in sweat.

"Romano…w-what's wrong?" for the second time today Romano held his brother like a bride, hugging him close to his chest. Italy's head tucked into his brother's neck. Harsh, ill breaths attacked South Italy's skin. Romano didn't bother to put on his brother's jacket.

"We need to get you to the hospital, Feliciano" or you'll die. No white flags here, no surrendering Feliciano. Italy's mind flew, was he really that ill? He'd never seen Romano so scared. He didn't mean to make his brother worry.

"I'm sorry I'm so weak…like always"

"Romano-kun, is everything all right?" Japan's voice called from the room below, Romano felt his brother go limp again, a cooking noodle in his arms. His skin felt like it was ablaze. It almost hurt to hold him. He descended the stairs.

When he reached the room, the other countries were standing, not sure where to go, or what to be doing.

Their eyes widened when he came to view, their eyes on the pale, limp Italian in Romano's arms.

"Itary-kun!"

"Romano! Vhat is going on? Vhat's vrong vith him!? Informieren Sie mich!"

The cries of concern were ceased by a painful cough by Feliciano. France brushed his fingers through the ill man's hair lovingly. Blood speckled thin, pale lips.

"He'll be all right, yes?" there was no answer that could have been given and been truthful.

"Please, all of you. Go home" and out into the rain Romano was rushing to the hospital. Leaving the other's behind, wallowing in confusion and worry. As he ran, his eyes on his brother, he knew. Ludwig was going nowhere.

And of the sudden pattern continued, Italy would die.

Such fine, fine white fabric. Italy's last moment of surrendering.

* * *

**Obviously this is an Italy whumpage story.**

**He doesn't just have to fight the sickness, but other dangers as well. As you will see.**

**Review. And yes this does progress into an Italy/Germany lemonade stand.**

**Translations:**

**Si- yes**

**un minute- one minute**

**Sei venuta? Il cibo è in attesa- are you coming? Food is waiting**

**Grazie- thank you**

**Mio fratello! Oh dio, non mio fratello- my brother! Oh god, not my brother**

** Informieren Sie much- inform me**

**Your writer,**

**EACT**


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